Either El made a lot more money than Lark, or she had someone helping to support her lifestyle.
Her corner loft apartment was in one of downtown Houston's most exclusive buildings. Taran could see clear to Sugar Land from the living room's two picture windows.
He took a small phone book and some photos he found on the fridge and her bathroom mirror-a few pictures of Eloise and girlfriends, more of Eloise and different wolves. He'd ask Lark if she recognized anyone. Forensics would send someone to get Eloise's computer. Now that they had a warrant for her stuff, they'd apply for the other three women and see if any names, numbers or emails popped up more than once. When someone showed up to dust for fingerprints, he left.
Something still nagged at him from last night, apart from the lingering horror of nearly losing Lark. If the wolves had thought Lark enough of a threat to try to take her, would they just walk away now? Might they consider her a loose end? They could easily learn her identity; Eloise may have told them.
He couldn't ask the department for help. He was weaving this case together with gossamer threads to begin with, and concerns for Lark's safety wouldn't merit police protection.
He'd been awake for thirty-six hours; he figured he could go another twenty-four before he dropped. He almost called Denardo to tell him he was headed back to Lark's Museum District apartment, but didn't. No one but Nick needed to know about his feelings. He got to her apartment around six.
The older complex sat on a cul-de-sac, tucked away among million dollar homes and swank boutiques and restaurants. It backed up to a tall wooden fence. On the other side of the fence, traffic roared down Bissonnet Street day and night. Bad guys paying Lark a visit would likely do it from the cul-de-sac.
Taran couldn't say for sure they'd try to come after her; he thought he might be using that as an excuse to sit outside her apartment and whine with frustrated longing, but he decided to delay introspection for a while.
The complex didn't have guest parking on the grounds. He parked a block down the street. From here, he could see the walkway leading to Lark's unit four doors down from the front of the building. He put the top up for privacy; in this neighborhood, a Mercedes convertible wouldn't attract attention.
A car purred into the cul de sac around nine-another Mercedes, a blue SL-Class Coupe worth three times as much as Taran's Cabriolet. It passed him and pulled up directly in front of the complex. Four footed, the hair on his back would've stiffened; on two feet, his neck itched, his nostrils flared and his cop sense screamed for attention.
Two wolves got out-a tall, slender alpha with brown hair and a shorter, stockier, red headed beta, both dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. Taran got out of his car. They stopped and turned to look at him.
The three of them stood like that for perhaps five seconds before Taran threw himself at the alpha, who ran to intercept him while the beta sprinted for the apartment building. He had seconds before the beta got to Lark. Even exhausted and with nerves shot to hell, an alpha wolf with a mate in imminent danger could summon vast reserves of fighting strength.
The alpha ducked Taran's first punch. When he threw his own, Taran caught the fist in his hand and twisted, snapping the wrist. The alpha howled and stepped back before spinning to level a roundhouse kick that caught Taran on the side. Taran grabbed the leg before the alpha retracted it.
He jerked, sending the other wolf crashing to the ground on his back. The alpha kicked. Taran jumped out of the way, landing beside the other wolf's head, which he kicked with his steel-toed cowboy boots. He heard a satisfying crunching sound, and the alpha stopped moving-not dead, but not going anywhere, either.
Taran raced for Lark's apartment.
He grinned with malicious glee as the beta attempted to kick the door down. That fucker was solid; he and Myall had made sure of it.
The beta didn't try to run, but just kicked the door harder. He stank of meth and whiskey, which explained why he didn't flee at the sight of Taran. Wolves involved in criminal enterprises, especially the drug trade or mob enforcement, got their betas stoked on speed and alcohol, which temporarily suppressed their instinctive submissiveness. A beta with a short-circuited flight response made for a dangerously unpredictable fighter.
The door finally gave way with a resounding crash just as Taran jumped the beta. Taran heard Lark scream as he and the beta went vaulting across the tiny den, crashing into the bar separating the den from the kitchen. The beta kicked hard and rolled away from Taran. He sprang to his feet and turned for Lark's room.
Taran shouted, «Lark! Stay in there!» as he dove into the beta's back and took him down face first. The beta squirmed and bucked, trying to throw him off. Taran grabbed a chunk of his hair and slammed his head into the hardwood floor. The fucked-up bastard barely paused before he started bucking again, arms flailing and legs kicking.
«Fuck!» shouted Taran as a searing pain shot through his leg. He looked down to see a knife protruding from his thigh. The beta had been walking around with a goddamned silver knife in his pocket.
Wolves who carried silver knives were pussies.
He yanked the six-inch blade out and plunged it into the beta's back. The wolf howled in pain, joining his voice to the chorus of sirens Taran suddenly noticed. The howling stopped abruptly, and then the bastard sure as hell stopped moving. Blood ran out of his mouth and pooled on the floor beneath him.
Taran rolled off the dead wolf, groaning in pain and exhaustion as he lay on his back on the cold, hard floor. He heard the bedroom door creak. It flew open as Lark ran into the den.
«Taran! Taran-oh God, you're bleeding, honey, you're bleeding,» she babbled, skidding to a stop and kneeling beside him. She kept babbling, but he didn't hear anything after she called him «honey».
She smelled fantastic, of apple shampoo and the girly stuff she put on her skin; even her fear smelled good to him. Her hands warmed him as she ran them over his face and his chest and down to his leg-the knife had gone in the outside of his left thigh, missing his femoral artery and his quad, and it hadn't been in there long enough for the silver to do much damage. The dark stain on his jeans stopped spreading.
He started to sit up.
«Don't move.» She knelt over him, her long hair falling in his face. He decided he could stay like that for a bit longer.
«I called the cops,» she said, stroking his face.
«Lark, I am the cops,» he said with a tired smile.
Then he noticed her shaking hands, one on his face and one on his chest, and her pallid face and red, puffy eyes. He pushed her hands away and sat up.
«Hey,» he said in surprise, «hey, come on, it's okay. I'm not that hurt.» She started to cry and buried her face in his shoulder. He gathered her in his arms across his lap-avoiding the bleeding thigh-and shushed her, murmuring words of comfort. He ran his hands through her hair and stroked her back while she sobbed, and he lost himself for a few moments in the feel and the scent of her. If the only way he could hold her like this was on the floor with a knife wound in his thigh and a dead werewolf next to them, so be it. He wished the sirens weren't so close.
A sweet ache of pride and longing flooded him as he hugged her and rocked her back and forth.
She'd been through one traumatic night already, only for someone to attack her again and invade her home, and she didn't go stark fucking hysterical. She stayed out of his way and called the cops, and now she worried about him, not about her busted door or the dead wolf.